Work Text:
One minute Peter is minding his own business, lounging in a web hammock stretched across the gap between two skyscrapers. An uninterrupted view of the waterfront lies before him, a physics textbook open on his lap. He’d meant to have covered this material already, but the petty thieves of Queen’s didn’t get the memo regarding his upcoming test. He taps one heel against the other absentmindedly as he thinks, the rhythm matching the tapping of pencil on paper as he surveys the erased and now smudged page.
The next minute, an unmanned Iron Man suit has hooked a metal arm through either shoulder and they are airborne, flying through the streets of New York. He drops the pencil from the shock of it and watches it fall the twenty stories to the ground below. “Sorry!” he yells at the alley cat who skitters out of the way just in time, startled and confused.
As they traverse familiar streets, it becomes obvious what their final destination is. Through the open window of his apartment, he can see Ned bent over a circuit board on his bed and Aunt May in the kitchen taking a lasagna out of the oven. The suit deposits him on the fire escape of his apartment. The brilliant blue light of one of Mr. Stark’s high-tech scanners sweeps over him in a routine but thorough scan before taking off again.
“What,” Peter says.
“No way!” Ned says.
“Seriously?” Aunt May says from the open doorway, half-resigned, still holding the spatula.
Peter sighs, pulling the mask off, thinking of the backpack he will have to return for at some point. The smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce strikes him suddenly, and his stomach growls. “Oh hey, dinner!”
PROTOCOL: DORORTHY.
-
It happens again.
It isn’t a building that collapses on him this time, because Peter has actually been pretty good about sticking to the ‘friendly neighbourhood Spider-man’ shtick and that sort of event rarely happens on his sort of scale. No, it happens again on a wide open street, birds chirping in the trees along the boulevard, clear skies above them.
Peter is curled into the tight space between an overturned car and the asphalt, sharp metal from the unevenly sheared frame digging into his side painfully. He extends an arm to coax the young boy out of the backseat. The kid can’t be more than five and has frozen with fear; he’s been staring at Peter with wide eyes since Spider-man showed up to investigate the source of the frantic father already extracted from the driver’s seat and waiting anxiously for them from a nearby ambulance.
A loud creak is the only warning before what remains of the door frame buckles. Peter has just enough time to pull the kid out of harm’s way before the weight of the car comes down on him hard. His pelvis bears the brunt of the force but he feels it in his chest. Only his hands are free to move, his fingers scrabbling uselessly at the ground for leverage to pull himself free.
“Mark! You’re – I can’t – come here--.”
“We need the fire department on scene yesterday.”
“Shit, Spider-man, is he—?”
The sensors in the suit flash red, a high pitched beep of alarm sounding three times to indicate the suit is at the limit of its tensile strength. Peter hears the alarm distantly as his heart beats strongly in his ears. Karen is speaking to him too, her voice calm but direct, but he registers little of what she says.
He knows what to expect after the last time and breathes through the pain in slow, measured breaths. Adrenaline floods his system in a wave, the speed of it sending a shiver up his spine. The involuntary movement causes the weight upon him to shift, trapping him further. He is suddenly, viscerally reminded of the building Liz’s father dropped on him; the smell of gasoline strikes him so strongly he almost gags on it, has a hard time placing whether it is from the past or present or both.
Black spots dot the edges of his vision and begin to multiply. The bright, vibrant colours of the world wash out in tones of dark red and he thinks several things in quick succession, among them: ‘I’m sorry, Aunt May’, and ‘Mr. Stark, this isn’t your fault, and ‘Shit, I’m going to miss decathlon tomorrow.’
He closes his eyes for a minute’s rest and finds the thick blanket of sleep so close at hand he considers giving in. He is just about to yield when Karen’s voice ramps up in volume and energy alike. “GOOD MORNING VIETNAM!” she yells, sending a light shock through the lower part of the mask, the closest she can get to a slap in the cheek.
“Hnng,” he says, one hand coming up to pull the mask away instinctively, separating him from the source of the loud noise.
She starts into an audio recording without further delay, and Peter can’t help but listen to the fast-paced pitch of a voice saying, “With the holiday season rapidly approaching, those personnel wishing to send Christmas cards home to the States are asked to do so no later than August, due to a yearly mail rush at that time.”
He snorts, and it’s not a smart move – laughing hurts, and movement carries the risk of destabilizing the car wreck further – but his heart rate slows to a mere breakneck pace and his next breath comes a little easier. Karen keeps up a steady stream of chatter the entire time, from when the first firefighter pokes his head under the car to check on Spider-man until Peter is able to push it off him himself.
PROTOCOL: ALARM CLOCK
-
Just after Thanksgiving, Peter fails a test.
It is not, he thinks, a Big Deal. Aunt May begs to differ. She waits up for him the night his teacher posts the results online with a tray of cookies, as is tradition: May is unfailingly careful to blanket lectures in affection, she has been since Uncle Ben passed.
“We’ve talked about this before, Peter. There will always be crime to fight, but your education is important. Monday to Friday, 8 to 3, New York will just have to live without Spider-man,” she says; it’s such a well-tread road that Peter could give the speech himself by now.
“But there was an old lady being mugged!” he yells. She quirks one eyebrow and he lowers his tone, one hand coming up in an apologetic gesture that she waves off good-naturedly.
“And you could have called the police about that. We talked about this, remember—,” she continues, and he sighs heavily, sinking down into one of the kitchen chairs with his arms crossed.
“School comes first unless the tri-state area is at risk, I know, I know,” he grumbles. “But—.”
“But nothing,” she says. “I understand that not everything is black and white, this is something we can negotiate in the future. If you think that something needs your attention urgently and that no one else is equipped to handle it, you call me.” She holds up a brand new StarkPhone, the only visible modification from the stock model a cartoon-style Spider-man button tucked underneath the volume rocker.
He takes her concern to heart and lies low for a week: he goes to school, he does his homework, he completes extra-credit work to make up for the test he missed. The following Monday, he is minding his own business, snacking on a breakfast sandwich from the food truck a street over from the newly reopened deli, when a yell of “Stop! Thief!” catches his ear from three blocks over. A quick glance at his watch tells him he has fifteen minutes left before the first bell: he finishes off the sandwich in two quick bites, already fishing for the suit in his backpack.
He’s just pulled the mask over his head and gotten ready to jump when a metal clamp slides over the canister with the web fluid. There is a strike through the icons for police radio, advanced weapons systems, and enhanced interrogation mode. The words ‘CURRENT STATUS: GROUNDED. CALL AUNT MAY, Y/N?’ are splashed on the screen in large, friendly font.
PROTOCOL: PARENTAL CONTROLS
-
He tells MJ the truth three weeks into senior year, not because she is in any imminent risk of discovering his secret accidentally but because he wants to. The more time he spends with her, the more he finds himself telling her: about his parents, about his dreams, about everything and nothing at all. It freaks him out so much he considers asking Karen to scan him for residue of truth serum, except the last time he asked for something like that, FRIDAY was alerted to the possibility of a bioweapon. Four hours later, Mr. Stark sent him a text reading: ‘If you feel the urge to give her a company, she’s the one, trust me.’
She doesn’t ask him many questions about his extracurricular activities, never pries, but always listens when he tells her about his day. She ends up getting the most complete picture of any of them: he doesn’t tell May about the dangerous ones or Ned about the dull ones. MJ never panics when he tells her about the near miss with a bullet, never tunes out when he explains how he taught a Scout Troop to tie knots using web rope. Sometimes, if he is very lucky, she’ll share a piece of herself with him as well.
He’s hanging out with her one afternoon after decathlon, tidying the room while she tells him about a podcast she’s stumbled upon recently, when his phone lights up on the table between them. He assumes it’s May checking in and lets it go to voicemail, not wanting to be rude. MJ reads the display over his shoulder and grabs the phone off the table, handing it to him. “You might want to take that,” she says. In her hand, the ringer starts up again, this time accompanied by a holographic image of the Iron Man helmet extending outwards from the screen.
“Rain check?” he asks.
“Rain check.”
There are specific coordinates and a predetermined travel path waiting for him when the suit AI initializes. “Where are we going, Karen?” he asks, ascending rapidly, shooting webs as fast as the suit can keep up.
“I apologize, Mr. Parker,” comes the quick response. “My name is FRIDAY. I run Mr. Stark’s suits, as well as the house. I am the one that requested your help.”
“Oooo-kay,” he says. “Great! Help, I’m good at that, always happy to help. Er…what am I helping with exactly?”
“Mr. Stark is in need of backup,” FRIDAY says. The AI fills Peter in on the situation as he makes his way over. The usual: Iron Man in a battle with international arms dealers at their compound. The unusual: the first blast of an alien weapon rendering the repulsors inert and limiting Iron Man’s fighting capabilities. The unprecedented: the second blast of an alien weapon knocking out communications technology and leaving Mr. Stark alone, without external communications or backup.
The sudden loss of contact had triggered FRIDAY’s response to notify all superheroes in the vicinity. FRIDAY has the same calm, measured tone to danger that Karen has; a little more sarcastic, a lot more full featured, but still with the same dedication that makes them so unique. If he didn’t know any better, he would call it heart. “Captain America is also en route,” he informs Peter, who does a double-take so hard he has to pull up quickly to avoid going face-first into a light pole.
When he arrives on scene, he finds Iron Man pinned down by the dock in a harbourfront warehouse, using one of the heavy metallic doors ripped off its hinges as a shield. Peter studies the scene from the roof of the abandoned building next door, puzzling out how best to approach. His suit doesn’t have the firepower to go head to head with these guys, and his freedom of movement is significantly hindered by the waterfront on one side: nothing to attach webs to.
What’s problematic for him should be a boon for Mr. Stark though – while the water is cold this time of year, that matters little in a suit. The water provides an easy escape avenue that is hard for anyone to follow. True, the repulsors are shot and Iron Man would be stuck down there for awhile, but the harbour is shallow in this region. The additional pressure on the suit is minimal at those depths, and Peter’s sure the suit could handle it; he can’t figure out why Mr. Stark doesn’t just back up and take a dive.
“Sir will not go underwater unless his hand is forced,” FRIDAY informs him. “There are extenuating circumstances,” he adds when Peter asks, and refuses to say more on the matter. Peter doesn’t get it, not really, but he doesn’t need to in order to adapt. He crosses the short distance to the neighbouring building in a single jump.
Iron Man’s eyes narrow when he spots him, the gesture ominous even through the mask. Peter waves at him before leaning over the side of the roof to shoot two web grenades into the building, targeting the weapons.
“Nice shot!” Karen says. This garners a noise of disapproval from FRIDAY, which she takes offense to, adding, “Encouragement is important for teenagers during their formative years.”
“Can you save this for later?” Peter asks. The web grenades managed to take out two of their weapons before their source was located, and the bad guys have since switched aim from Iron Man to Spider-man accordingly. The brief reprieve gives Iron Man time to reposition and he slips behind one of the cargo containers, tossing the door he’d been previously using as a shield over his shoulder to repay the favour. Peter doesn’t get more than a few steps away from his previous position when the sight of Captain America’s shield in his peripheral vision stops him cold, shortly followed by the man himself. The Captain drops from the roof to the cargo container to the ground in two graceful jumps and puts the remaining opponents to the ground in one throw of his shield, quickly followed by a swift punch to keep them there.
Iron Man steps out from behind the cargo container, rolling the attacker nearest him over with one heavily armoured foot he leaves on the man's chest. “And stay there,” he says, popping the face plate up. Peter hops down from the group in a single leap and stares, wide-eyed, as Captain America finishes neatly zip-tying the rest of them.
“Peter, meet Captain America. Steve, meet the kid.”
PROTOCOL: FAMILY AFFAIR
-
Peter started worrying about the money when he grew old enough to understand the context clues. For as long as he has been living with Aunt May, it has been the one topic not up for discussion. No matter how many times the question is asked, and there have been a great number over the years, the state of the household finances is always ‘fine’. Never mind that Aunt May picked up a second job when their health insurance premiums rose, it was purely coincidence when they moved when their former apartment was bought out and the new owners jacked up the rent.
When he turned fourteen, Peter proposed getting a part-time job after school. May sat him down on the couch, looked him square in the eye, and said, “You already have a full-time job: being a kid. If you want to get a job for spending money or college, fine, but that had better be the only reason. I expect that money to be used on chocolate or overpriced textbooks.”
Still, Peter had learned to read between the lines. He never complains about day three of pot roast, never asks for things he doesn’t need, leaves the expensive items off his Christmas list.
Being hyper-aware of the monthly budget has made him hyper-aware of his own account, and how it has been doing some odd things of late. It had started with the occasional ATM withdrawal never managing to alter his account balance. Since then, it’s progressed to Aunt May’s credit card, the balance of which reads zero no matter how much is charged. Peter had been willing to write it off as a bank error until the deposits started arriving for more money than Peter typically spends in a year, yet alone a month. Tony Stark’s idea of an allowance.
‘Thank you,’ he sends once.
‘For what?’ Mr. Stark replies, and that’s the end of that discussion.
‘It belongs to you,’ Happy sends him later. ‘Now go to bed already, it’s a school night.’
PROTOCOL: MAKE IT RAIN